Don't Wake Me With So Much
by chrysophyta
Summary: Post Season 1How Logan's been spending his angstfilled summer.
1. Chapter 1

DON'T WAKE ME WITH SO MUCH 

Word Count: 3179

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Literally. So don't sue.

A/N: Post season 1 angst-fest. And the title is from the R.E.M song, Daysleeper.

I.

Logan Echolls sat on the east lawn of the Kane estate. It was Day 62, and he was in his usual 2 AM spot. He sipped from his flask; it was peaceful on this grassy knoll.

He'd spent every night here since Day 7. He had stopped thinking in terms of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, weeks, or months. He preferred the simplicity of numbers, like a progressive number line. Positive, negative numbers in a straight line.

The number line starts on the night of Aaron's arrest. The night of truth. Day 1. Since then he has tried not to think about anything. Which was easy since he spent daylight hours sleeping and the night here, moderately drunk. Not too drunk. Too drunk could tip you into oblivion. Too drunk and you end up on the Coronado Bridge. You wake up from a too drunk night and suddenly your father is arrested for killing your girlfriend and for trying to kill your would-be girlfriend.

By Day 7, though, Logan has resigned himself to the fact that he was not going to chuck it all—no matter how tempting his mother's bottle of Valium was. No matter how much he wanted to lie down in the middle of the road and wait for a car to run him over, he was going to keep on breathing. He was going to live. At least for a little while. It was a depressing thought. Apparently he was not his mother's son, after all.

But was he his father's son? This is the question that ultimately drives him out of the house. There are certain questions that do not warrant an answer. No matter what She thought—or did.

When he finally ventured out of his house, he realized much too late how conspicuous his X-terra was. Why on earth had he chosen that color?

He parked the car at the mall, lost the adventurous photogs at Nieman Marcus and then hailed a cab to Weevil's garage.

When Weevil saw Logan, he stops, narrowed his eyes, and swaggered over to Logan.

"Hey," Logan said.

Weevil looked as though he was ready for anything—payback for the bridge, at the very least some shoving or shouting.

"Hey," Weevil said. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

"Part of my community service. Reach out and touch a Paco day."

"It'll be the last thing you touch," Weevil said.

"Right. Thanks for the reminder to delouse afterwards."

Weevil scoffed, and Logan almost smiled. Almost. Maybe there were some things that hadn't changed.

Logan explained what he was looking for—a getaway car, and Weevil hooked him up with an '81 rusted Dodge Magnum. A two-door monster with an engine that roared. His very own rust bucket. It drove like a tank.

"Look, man," Logan said, his arm leaning on the window of the open door. "If you wouldn't mind keeping this little transaction to yourself."

"I got better things to talk about than rich white boys like you," Weevil said.

"Not even," Logan stopped. "Not even—"

"Like I said, you're not high on my list of conversation topics."

Logan felt so grateful to Weevil for saving him from saying her name that he nearly weeps. Which was just another indication of how severely fucked up his life was

Logan drove his new monster for hours until he found himself parked outside the Kane perimeter. It had not escaped him that he often thought of the Kane house as something like a prison. Or a fortress. Something impenetrable. Fences and Dobermans intended to keep the world out. A lot of good it had done them in the end. The danger, like that old urban legend, had already been inside.

And, truth be told—but let's be honest here, there had been a little too much truth in his life lately.

Mystery solved. Case closed. The end.

It had taken him three nights to figure out the exact speed to crawl—yes, crawl—so as not to trigger the motion detector lights. It only took him two nights, though, to think to bring dog biscuits for Zeus and Athena—Celeste's pure bred Dobermans assigned to guarding the grounds. By the Day 12 (his fifth visit to the Kane estate), he had it worked out—the right crawl speed, the right spot to scratch behind Zeus' ear. A biscuit tossed upon arrival—one for the road.

He feels something close to pride—although he would never choose that word himself—that he has figured out the system. He figured out a way into the Kane world—or at least the lawn.

He wonders if this is how She feels when the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. He wonders if She—

He's not thinking about her.

He is content to sit on the lawn and watch the house.

He focuses on his ritual: scale the south edge at about 2 AM. Sit on the grassy knoll, flask in hand, dog against each hip. Later, he will drive home, after a stop at Dog Beach for a pre-dawn swim, and then back home. He will sleep during daylight hours, like a vampire. He'll speak to no one save Mrs. Navarro—and that is only to say, "No, gracias. Estoy bien. Bien. No Tengo hambre. Si, gracias." He hasn't turned on his phone since Day 1. There's nothing to say anyway. He doesn't even know where to begin.

He stares at the house, at each window, naming each room: living room, dining room, Duncan's bedroom. At the corner, Jake's study: leather couch, ornate oak desk, laptop computer half-way closed. School pictures of Duncan and Lily on the desk—wide, big teeth smiles. The room is neat and ordered and obviously never used for work. He and Lily had fooled around in just about every room of the house—it had been a challenge f r her—except never the study. She said it smelled like her father.

Next to the study is the pink guest room. Or blush, or coral, or some other bullshit color masquerading as pink. Logan has never known the Kane family to ever have a guest in the house, even though they have two other guest rooms. Even he stayed the night when he was a kid, he'd sleep in Duncan's room, sleeping bag, feather pillow.

Bathroom—marble tile and counter top. Sparkling and cold. He'd had Lily up on the counter during her sixteenth birthday party. Red dress pushed up to her waist, her heels digging into the small of his back.

His gaze goes from room to room, pausing at Lily's, until he has mapped the side of this house, as though naming each room, like a game of clue—conservatory, billiards room, library--will help him to understand this family.

Duncan. Lily. Celeste. Jake. They lived here. And so had Logan, for a time. Slouched on the sofa, playing _Halo_ and _Grand Theft Auto_ with Duncan, skinny dipping in the pool with Lily. Sliced apples on a plate for an after school snack. This house, he knew, had held the secret. Family. Love. Loyalty.

What a lie it had all been. And it had come as a complete surprise to Logan how much he had relied on that particular truth. How he had envied this house, yearned to be a part of it. Even after Lily was gone.

But it had all been a facade—the house was filled with lies, betrayal, and death.

There are, of course, no answers here. But Logan knows, as he climbs back over the fence, that he will be back the next night.

Someone is leaning on the hood of Logan's car. He stops. For a moment he panics—he's been found out, they know where he is. He shakes his head--he is becoming a bit of paranoid recluse.

It's not a mysterious stranger at all. It's that kid, Wallace. Logan has been expecting this—he is surprised it has taken so long.

"Out for a moonlit stroll?" Logan says as he walks around to the driver's side. His keys jangle in his hand.

Wallace hops down off the hood, and opens his mouth to speak but Logan interrupts.

"No, wait." Logan holds up his hand. "Don't tell me. You're just following orders of the tiny blonde one who will never learn to mind her own fucking business."

Wallace clearly does not want to be here anymore than Logan wants him here. He looks down, paws the ground with the toe of his shoe. "She was worried," Wallace finally says. "No one's seen or heard from you for two months."

"She doesn't have the right. She's not entitled to be worried about me."

"Look, Veron—"

Logan's arm shoots out and grabs Wallace's collar and shoves him up against the car. Logan whispers, "Don't. Don't say her name."

Wallace does not move, as though gauging how far Logan is going to take this. Logan let him go, and straightened out his shirt with a pat.

"You've seen me. Now you can go file your report. I'm sure she has a file on me. She's predictable, that one. You can always count on her to believe the worst, stab you in the back—"

Logan's head whips to the side. Pain. Blood in his mouth. Logan stares incredulously at Wallace. Wallace punched him. Wallace stares back, surprised, flexing his fingers. Damn, that hurt.

"Sorry, man," Wallace says, shaking his hand. "You okay? That's not why I came out here."

Logan smirks. How did she do it? How did she convince Wallace to come out here? And why didn't she come herself? Was it possible that she was afraid? Of him?

"You just can't say things like that. Especially not after—you just can't say those things."

"I get it," Logan says, wiping his mouth with the collar of his T-shirt. He tongues the inside of his cheek. The kid has quite a hook. This Logan understood. A cut across the chin. A snap, like electroshock--it focused the brain.

Wallace shifts his weight. "I could tell you were gearing up for a rant and in my experience a crow bar makes an appearance at the end. Besides she doesn't deserve it, and--."

"Wallace," Logan says, stopping him. "I get it. It's okay."

Logan sighs. "Are we done here because I've got somewhere else I need to be? TV Land is showing a _Little House on the Prairie_ marathon and I just can't miss a moment between Pa and Half Pint."

"Yeah, no problem. Mission accomplished." Wallace holds up his hands in surrender and backs away.

Logan leans his head back. It is a beautiful night—or it had been. He takes a deep breath. He won't make it Dog Beach tonight. He is on the brink of something like the crest of the wave—and he has no intention of riding it to the other side. It would be too much and he knew that he would break apart.

"Hey. Hey, Wallace," Logan said. "You hungry? You want to get some breakfast?"

Under the glaring fluorescent lights of Pancake House (open 24 hours, and a favorite after hours hang out for underage drinkers), Logan couldn't help but think that he had gone about this all wrong. Why had he stayed in Neptune? Why didn't get away like Duncan who was doing some sort of internship for the Orange County Register. He was spending his summer making coffee and sniffing white out.

Why hadn't Logan packed up his car and headed to San Diego? Got his own place and started a new life. Maybe get a job at a video store with a name tag that said Michael, Pat, or Jim. Michael-Pat-or Jim could be normal. Michael-Pat-or Jim would not have a dead girlfriend, suicidal mother, murderous father, or ex-girlfriend who thought you guilty of every crime that crossed her sleuthing path.

Sally, their waittress with bleached blonde, frizzy hair, takes their order of pancakes and french toast. Logan is starving, he realizes. He can't remember the last time he's eaten anything besides strawberry pop tarts.

Logan cups his hands under his chin, cocks his head to the side. "So, young Fennell, are you looking forward to starting school in the fall?" he says, channeling Ms. James' soothing voice.

Wallace tenses as though waiting for a blow, but doesn't reply. He looks at the door, probably wondering why he agreed to come here with Logan.

"Yes, Logan," Logan says. "I sure am. This year's going to be super-terif!" Logan fingers the handles of the various syrup bottles on the table. "Relax, Wallace. I'm just trying to make polite conversation."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should try a little harder."

Logan smirks. "Maybe. Maybe." Logan looks around the nearly deserted restaurant. There are only two other diners. A woman in a few tables over is holding her cup of coffee like it is her best friend, her dying best friend.

Logan shifts in his seat. He can do this. He cam have a conversation. Just one word after another. Subject, verb. "I've seen you down at Dog Beach. You into surfing?"

Sally drops off their plates and promised to warm-up Logan's coffee. Wallace looks at him, warily, braced for a trap.

"I don't surf," Wallace says. "I, uh, build radio controlled airplanes." He cuts a triangle of French Toast and forked it into his mouth. A teardrop of syrup in the corner of his mouth. "Dog Beach is a good spot to fly them. Open space, no power lines."

"Can you make them loopty-loop?" Logan asks. The pancakes were heavy, sweet, reassuring. Once in a blue moon, Logan would wake up on a Sunday and his mother would be in the kitchen making pancakes (highball next to the stove). She never cooked—and she didn't usually get the pancakes right. Sometimes he would slice strawberries.They were either underdone or overcooked. But he had loved to sit in the kitchen with her, listen to the hiss of the griddle. He would watch her pour the batter into the griddle, the batter expanding like lava.

"Loops, dives, figure 9, rolling circle. Pretty much anything within the laws of Physics."

"Light is a particle that exhibits properties of a wave," Logan mumbles.

Wallace looks at him questioningly, but Logan shakes his head and waves him on.

"Back in LA, I was forth in the T-6 races and my friend, Ironn won first place at the Carmarillo Flying Circus." Wallace pauses. "This probably sounds stupid to you."

Logan shrugs. Who was he to say what was stupid.

"Anyway, my dad and I used to fly together."

"Not anymore?" Logan says, stuffing the last forkful in his mouth. He feels much better, as though the pancakes had been the exact thing to fill a hole.

"No, not so much anymore. My dad's dead."

"Oh," Logan says with his mouth full. He forgot. If he ever knew—his focus certainly never included this kid. "My mom's dead," Logan offers.

Wallace nods. "Yeah, I know. Sucks, doesn't it?"

Logan almost smiles, before realizing that dead parents might not be the best thing to be smiling over at this moment. Ms. James would probably call that an inappropriate emotional response, which was no doubt indicative of deeper problems. "Yeah, it sucks."

Logan grabs the check that Sally had surreptitiously dropped at their table. He digs into his pockets for a couple of bucks for tip. "Thanks, um, for coming out with me. Now you can give a full report. Subject, Echolls, Logan enjoyed a full meal of buttermilk pancakes, two strips of crispy bacon, and a cup of coffee. Subject reported said meal to be filling and delicious."

"Maybe I'll leave out the part about hitting you," Wallace says.

Logan feels his lip with his thumb. He knows that it will be bruised and swollen by the time he gets home. "I'm sure she would understand. Just tell her you were provoked."

"I was provoked," Wallace says.

"Oh, right. And she'll have no trouble believing it. She's good at jumping to the wrong conclusions when it comes to me—"

"You're doing it again," Wallace says, putting his hand up to Logan's chest. It is surprisingly threatening.

"Right. Sorry. It's sort of a habit, like a default mode."

"Well, maybe you should work on that, too," Wallace says.

"A man can only do so much," Logan says.

Back outside the Kane house, Wallace finally aska him. "What do you do here every night?"

"She doesn't know? Isn't it in my file?" Logan says, mocking his surprise. "Maybe she's losing her touch."

"She doesn't talk about you." Wallace says. "She doesn't really let on about what she's thinking. Not really."

Logan scoffs. "Yeah, I've noticed."

"It's deceptive, you know. At first you think she doesn't hide anything, because she's so honest and tough and if you mess with her, she's in your face. But the important stuff? She keeps that inside." Wallace pats his chest.

"If she doesn't talk about me, then what are you doing here?"

"You'll be with her and suddenly she's not in the room with you. And there's this look on her face." Wallace looks away.

Logan waits. He's pretty sure Wallace hadn't meant to say so much. But there aren't many people that Wallace can to talk to about her. It occurs to Logan that Wallace is worried about her.

"I came here because she asked me to. She wanted to make sure you were okay. And I knew that doing this would make it easier for her. I would be able to tell her that you are okay, and maybe give her some relief."

Logan has nothing to say to this. He was hoping to talk about her, but it is too big to think about. He doesn't know what to think: 1) she has no right to intrude on his ritual, how dare she pretend to worry about him; 2) once again, he is the cause of her pain; and 3) Why does he get to be her protector?

"Maybe I'll see you around," Wallace says. "Maybe in the daylight."

Logan nods, and watches Wallace drive away. It wasn't fair. She was not supposed to be worried. She was a heartless bitch, and he was done chasing after her.

He sits in his car. Lilly was so reckless. Fearless.

God, Logan thinks, as he rests his head on his steering wheel. Lilly's love was so big. It swallowed everyone, like a supernova. Her gravity had pulled in everyone around her. It had been good once. He had been good. They use to walk along the beach together. Their feet shifted in the sand with each step, like they were drunk. She had walked beside him, with her arm through his. As long as she held on to him tightly he wouldn't drift away. But it hadn't been enough.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	2. Chapter 2

DON'T WAKE ME WITH SO MUCH

Word Count: 3,166

Disclaimer: Rob Thomas owns all; I promise to put them back when I'm done.

AN: I had hoped to finish this before the premiere, but alas I could not. Feedback appreciated.

PART TWO:

On day 78, Logan is arrested.

He was in his usual spot when Zeus and Athena darted off and disappeared into the darkness. At the time he had thought rabbits. That is, until he heard the distinctive sound of a gun being drawn from its holster.

And before Logan could turn around and inform the intruder that a gun might be a little excessive under the circumstances, every outside light came on, lighting the grounds like a stage, and Logan is tackled to the ground. With an oomph, his face was pushed into the ground, his arms jerked behind his back.

He was pulled to his feet and shoved towards the front gate. It looked like the entire Neptune Sheriff Department was called out. Flashing lights casting the Kane house in shades of blue and red, like a kaleidoscope of shadows.

This, of course, was not the first time that the police had been called for a disturbance at the Kane house.

Logan was stopped short in front of the lead deputy. "Crockett?" Logan said. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble just to see li'l ol' me."

"Mr. Echolls. Somehow I'm not surprised," Leo said, then garbled something into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. "Do you want to tell me what you're doing here, on private property?"

Another officer—was it Sachs? _She_ would know—handed Leo Logan's personal effects—wallet, keys, flask.

"I'm going to need that back," Logan said, pointing to the flask.

Leo shrugged. "Okay, we'll play it that way." Leo eased Logan into the squad car, his hand squarely on Logan's head. It was the first kind touch in, well, 78 days, so he felt oddly comforted sitting in the back of the squad car. There was nothing to be done but sit back and listen to the radio—static with bursts of nonsensical codes, describing other people who were no doubt having worse nights than Logan.

Logan heard Leo order his minions to sweep the grounds. "I think I know what this is about," Leo said before shutting the door.

Lamb, of course, questioned him—or tried to. Logan wasn't saying a word. Even if he was in a cooperative mood, how could he even begin to answer his questions.

What was he doing at the Kane house?

Didn't he think the family had been through enough?

I don't know. Yes, they have been through enough.

When Logan didn't respond, Lamb leaned back in his chair, popping his gum. "Don't you want your phone call this time? Maybe see if your girlfriend will come to your rescue? Of course, maybe she's the one who called it in."

Logan smirked. "You're pretty smug for a guy who's about to be out of a job come November. Let an innocent man serve time for a crime he didn't commit while letting the murderer roam free." Logan tsks. "You were outsmarted by Nancy Drew, Sheriff. That's not something even the voters of Neptune forget."

Lamb leaned a little too far back in his chair, and he had to lurch forward to grab the table before he tipped back.

"Can I go back to my cell, now?" Logan asked.

Logan stretches on the cot in the holding cell. The single window in the cell casts a box of sunlight against Logan's legs. He stares at the vents in the ceiling, hands behind his head. He hums that Janice Joplin song—Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. He should've thought of this before—jail. It's perfect. He has his meals—so far, breakfast—brought to him. No one bothers him, and even better—he is not required to make any decisions.

But what crime? Definitely something white collar. He is not a blue collar type of guy under any circumstances. Especially if it involves becoming some 250 pound guy named Maurice's bitch. He toys with identity theft—certainly a hot issue with law enforcement. Besides, his current identity wasn't working out so well—what with its penchant for dying women.

At the sound of the door opening, Logan says, "Is that the concierge, because I think I reserved a room with a separate bathroom."

"Duncan," Logan says. He sits up. Logan hasn't seen Duncan since the night of his surprise birthday party. Before things started to unravel.

"Hey," Duncan says. He shoves his hands in his pocket. He stays close to the door.

"You're back," Logan says.

"I just go back this morning. The gardener, Mr. Yoshimono, told me that they'd arrested someone for trespassing and drunken disorderly."

"They're dropping the disorderly part," Logan says. He moves slowly to the edge of the cell. "How are you?"

"What the hell's going on, Logan?" Duncan says.

"Just hanging out. How was San Diego?"

"That's it? That's all you're going to say?" Duncan asks.

"I finished that book for English. Finally. You know, that Hemingway book. About the guy who's been wounded in World War II. So he basically walks around Paris all the time and then the woman he loves shows up. But she's a total bitch and she's marrying some other dude. I kind of liked it. I could identify with the guy."

"Wasn't he, like, impotent or something. That's why she dumps him. It's supposed to be tragic." Duncan smiles. "Are you trying to tell me something, Logan?"

"Hardly," Logan smirks. "Are you springing me, or what?"

Logan can see Duncan's shoulders relax. There's a faint smile on Duncan's face. "They're putting the paperwork through. I got Celeste to agree not to press charges—but she's getting a little aggravated that she can't actually put someone in jail."

"You can thank me on the way home," Logan says.

Leo walks Logan out of the cell and through out-processing. Leo holds Logan by the arm firmly. "Try to stay out of trouble, Mr. Echolls," Leo says. "I don't want to see you here again."

"But I've grown accustomed to these little encounters with the fine officers of the Neptune Sheriff Department. What with the false arrests and bruises from the handcuffs. It's like coming home. I wouldn't miss it for the world," Logan says, as he flips through his wallet, visibly counting his cash, prior to putting his wallet back in his pocket.

Inside Duncan's car, Logan offers his flask to Duncan. "At least I still have some Jack left."

Duncan eyes Logan out of the corner of his eye. "I don't think so," Duncan says as he starts the car. "And maybe you should hold off."

Logan tips back the flask, squeezes his eyes shut as it burns his throat. "I'm touched, really," Logan says, patting his heart. "This just takes the edge off. And I wouldn't be so quick to judge, DK. You want to pop a few goofballs—got any on you?" Logan is surprised by his sudden anger.

Duncan doesn't respond immediately. "You should've told me," Duncan says.

"Told you what?" Logan says, but he knows exactly what Duncan's talking about.

"We're supposed to be friends," Duncan says.

"We are friends," Logan says. He feels desperation clawing at his throat. Logan wants to shake Duncan repeating 'Of course, we're friends. We'll always be friends.' Shake him then smash his face in. Duncan is a constant—but maybe too much has happened, too much has changed.

"Then you should've told me," Duncan says.

"When was I supposed to tell you, DK? When you were in Cuba? When you didn't tell anyone where you were? You were the one who ran away." Logan shifts in his seat. He's almost glad they are both restrained by their seatbelts inside the car. If they were out in the open, he's pretty sure there'd be some shoving. There's nothing like a punch to bring clarity to the situation—hitting and being hit. "Things got weird and like usual, you ran."

"Which is different from you how?" Duncan clenches the steering wheel. "I couldn't stay. I thought—I thought I hurt Lilly."

Logan exhales. "She would've helped you," he says quietly.

Duncan scoffs and finally looks at Logan. "You really believe that? If she had the proof, that I did anything, she would've turned me in. You think she singled you out? She only had, what do they call it—circumstantial evidence against me."

Logan narrows his eyes, trying to imagine her turning Duncan in. No, not her precious Duncan. She would've confronted him, she would've asked questions. She wouldn't have gone behind his back.

"Anyway, you broke the rule. The _one_ rule. She was off limits to you," Duncan says, his voice losing conviction.

"_This_ is what you want to talk about?" Logan asks incredulously.

Logan almost laughs. Out of all the things that they could be talking about, the injuries that Logan has inflicted on Duncan, Logan can't really believe that he wants to talk about _her. _She seemed the least of everything that had happened.

Duncan looks at Logan, as if there is nothing else to talk about. Logan smiles. Who can resist the generosity and innocence of Duncan Kane.

This opportunity to apologize is a gift. Logan can apologize for this. There's no way to apologize for the other. "I know. You're right," Logan says. "We—I didn't want you to find out that way, trust me. I was waiting to see what was going to happen. And as anyone could've predicted, nothing, nada, zilch." Logan sticks his finger in his cheek—pop! The lies roll of his tongue so easily. "I'm sorry, DK. Things were kind of messed up."

"Were?" Duncan asks, and then he laughs.

"Yeah, were. They're all better now," Logan says, and he can't help but laugh with him.

When they get to Duncan's street, Logan points out the Magnum. "Do I even want to know what happened to the X-terra?" Duncan says.

Logan gets out of the car. "Thanks for coming to get me, DK," Logan says. And, he's surprised to discover that he means it.

"You want to come in," Duncan says, tilting his head towards the house.

"No, man. I've got to—" Logan pauses. What exactly does he have to do? "I've got to get back."

Duncan nods. He does not question Logan. "Maybe we can hang out sometime. You know, before school starts."

School. Oh, Fuck. He is going to have to walk down the halls and remember his locker combination and sit in calculus, learning about the functions of X and Y and try to figure out how those crazy kids were going to work it out and finally get together.

"Have your assistant call my assistant. I'm sure I can pencil you in—maybe between tennis and a manicure." He blows on his nails.

"What are you going to do?" Duncan finally asks.

"I don't know. Go home, celebrate my freedom." Logan waves his flask. "I know why the caged bird sings." Which isn't what Duncan is asking, but it's an answer that he can give.

Duncan looks at him. It's an I-know-you-better-than-that look. Duncan is still one of the few people that can use it. But they don't really know each other anymore. And Logan's not sure who he is—if he's not Duncan's best friend.

"Hey, DK?" Logan asks. "Would you have thought that I did it? Honestly?" Logan immediately regrets asking, because he doesn't really want to know the answer.

Duncan pauses. "Do you want the truth?"

Logan thinks for a moment. Logan shakes his head. "Lie to me," he says.

"No, I didn't think you did it," Duncan says. He smiles at Logan, sadly, and pulls into the drive.

Logan nods. After the Koontz alibi materialized, Logan had thought Duncan capable—or at least his epilepsy made him capable. With friends like these, he thought.

Logan looks at Duncan's house. It looks so different in the daylight. Like any other house on this street—all glass and sharp angles. It looks like a house where nothing terrible could happen and monsters stayed hidden in closets. Monsters certainly didn't get invited to go upstate for the yearly crush.

The house didn't hold any secrets. It is just a house. The Kanes are just a family whose wealth could not protect them. There is nothing to be learned, no mystery to solve. Not simple. Not complicated. Just.

The cover of _Variety_ announces that United Artists is in development talks with Wolfgang Peterson to direct the Lilly Kane story—which is what the trades started calling it. Although it's not really her story anymore. She won't even survive the first act. She won't be played by a start.

Sarah Michelle Gellar is currently in discussions to play the lead role. Logan tries to imagine who will play his role. Probably that whiny Dawson kid. Logan imagines the end of the movie, the part where they tell what happens next to the key players:

_Aaron Echolls was sentenced to life in prison without parole. He is currently appealing the verdict._

_Veronica Mars is currently at UCLA studying journalism._

_Logan Echolls…._

The past was too heavy. He could not even imagine his future. Exhaustion crashes over him. He can barely keep his eyes open.

Logan passes Mrs. Navarro on the landing of the stairs.

"I saw you on the news," Mrs. Navarro says to him.

Logan nods his head. He's not surprised.

"You in trouble?" she asks. When Logan shakes his head, she continues. "You and Eli—you are much the same."

Logan smiles. "I wouldn't say that out loud around too many people, particularly _Eli_, Mrs. Navarro. It's liable to rub him the wrong way."

"His padre—his father is not good," she says, shaking her head. "I bring up sandwich." She pats Logan's arm.

Logan shuffles down the hall to his bedroom. He didn't want to think about how much he was like Weevil. As if things were bad enough. He shakes his head; he'll take a shower and then sleep, hopefully forever.

He pauses in front of his father's office. He has not been in this room since Day 1. He's been hiding from this room. He opens the door slowly, not sure what to expect. This way there be monsters.

His father's face is everywhere in the room. A shrine to his fame. His face is huge and floats against black in the movie posters around the room. A framed _People_ proclaiming him the Sexiest Man Alive. On the mantel, the awards: People's Choice Awards, Blockbuster Awards, even an Emmy for his guest appearance on _The Practice_ as a man (an innocent man) who was on trial for the murder of his wife. There's even a Best Dressed Award in the shape of a coat hanger. His action figure from _Beyond the Breaking Point_ with kung fu grip and rocket launcher.

He runs his fingers along the bookcase—DVDs and VHS tapes chronicling Aaron's entire film career. Copies of his television appearances, including the one where he played Ping Pong with Rosie O'Donnell—he let her win. There's even a copy (it's out of print, now) of the only Western he did—_Six Guns at Sunrise_. It was one of his first roles. He played an unscrupulous deputy who was killed in the first act by the hero.

Logan pulls out the DVD of _Breaking Point_. 'A man can only bend so far….' His heart pounds, and his fingers fumble with the case.

He repeats to himself: I'm not strong, I'm not brave. I'm not ready. I can't handle this. Like a mantra, over and over again.

He inserts the disk into the player. He crouches in front of the TV, pulling his knees to his chest.

_Breaking Point_ was one of Aaron's first blockbuster movies. It was the first time he opened a movie, as they say, on his own. As the credits roll, Aaron runs down a street. It's unclear whether he's being chased or doing the chasing. His arms slice through the air and his strides are long. As the camera pans in closer, he shouts, "Stop, police!" He pauses to draw his gun. He gets off one shot, before taking off again. "That _never _works," he mumbles before running after the bad guy.

He's so young. His face smooth; his hair dark and cut short. Boyish.

The next scene has Aaron bringing in the bad guy into the police station. He jokes with his fellow officers. There's some backslapping until the camera finally finds the partner. The partner with the family and a baby on the way. The partner who always wants to call in back-up while Aaron wants to charge ahead—procedure and red tape be damned.

The audience learns that Aaron is a hot-shot cop. A good man who doesn't have time for procedure or bureaucracy. In short, a hero.

The partner, of course, is doomed. But then without the death, Aaron would never reach the _Breaking Point_.

Aaron and his partner are driving in the squad car. Logan drinks the last of the Jack. But's not going to work this time. He starts to rock back and forth.

And for the first time, Logan thinks about his father and Lilly. About how his father, without a second thought, had bashed in the skull of this reckless, foolish girl. And then wiped off the ashtray and walked away. Deliberate. Cruel. A cruelty that Logan had thought could only be directed towards him.

Logan falls forward, his fingers clutching the carpet. The carpet is soft and smooth, like sand. He squeezes his eyes shut. He is not strong enough for this.

He's not strong or brave, he thinks, but he cannot stop this now. He thinks about _her_. Veronica. How his father flung his tiny, brave girl into a freezer. And then set it on fire. Veronica, scared and crying for help as the smoke filled the freezer. He can almost hear her cries.

Veronica, Veronica, Veronica.

Beautiful, brave Veronica. How scared she must've been.

On screen, during the funeral of the partner, Aaron comforts the wife and tells her that he'll find out who did this, Logan realizes he's crying. And there's a sound, a keening sound. At first he thinks that the sound is from the movie, but it's him. It is the sound of loss—a moan, a sob, a wail. An expulsion, a letting go--like the moment when he stands on the surfboard and glides on the wave. Like falling.

His father's voice in a sultry whisper. Vowing vengeance for his partner's death. His father's voice is promising justice, no matter what the cost.

The sobs wrack through him. There's a part of him, the part of him that's still a boy who doesn't understand that fathers aren't supposed to hit their sons, who wants more than anything for him to come home. Because, despite everything, he loves his father.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

DON'T WAKE ME WITH SO MUCH

Disclaimer: _Veronica Mars _and its characters do not belong to me. I have only borrowed them, here. No infringement intended.

Word Count: 4,759

AN: Here's the final chapter—and it was a tricky one. Thank you for the kind feedback. The last bit was borrowed (read: stolen) from _Out of Africa_. I couldn't resist, it seemed to fit perfectly. Thanks again for reading!

PART THREE

When Logan opens his eyes, he sees sky. Blush clouds across a dim sky—dusk? dawn?

Did I jump? he thinks. He imagines he's been washed up on shore. He feels like he's spent some time in the water—battered and bruised.

It's not the fall that kills you; it's the sudden stop.

He closes his eyes as he sits up. His head is pounding.

If only he could skip past this part and go back to oblivion. There is always a moment—a blissful moment--before memory slides back into place. Like the moment between orgasm and sleep—although usually without the headache. The slow blinking of the eye, the look around the room. In those few moments, there is only the present—no past, no future.

Logan takes inventory: he's in an alley. There's a dumpster, some trashcans. It smells of rotten eggs and stale beer. His lip aches, and his face feels hot. He touches his lip; it's swollen and cracked.

His legs seem to be working, so he stands, brushes pieces of glass from his jeans—a hole in the knee. He pats his pockets—no keys, no wallet. Perfect.

And then he remembers.

He had staggered out of Aaron's office and out the front door. He had no particular destination in mind, and he had ended up at the Checkerboard. It was a dive—dark, dirty, and open—which had been it's main appeal to Logan. He sat at the bar and listened to some old dude playing the mandolin and sing _Proud Mary_.

The old man's voice was old and slow, and it was the saddest song Logan had ever heard.

"Big wheel keeps on turning," the old man sang, his voice like death "Proud Mary keeps on burning."

Logan held up his glass to toast. "It's a direct address, old man. A command. It's the very subtle difference between 'Veronica, stay' and 'Veronica stays.' So it's 'Proud Mary _keep_ on burning.'" And then he swallowed his drink in one gulp. So what if he could say her name—it didn't mean anything.

He watched as the bartender leaned down, washing pilsners and shot glasses, her breasts pushing forward in her v-neck top, like the rise of the moon. Logan smiled. At least something hadn't changed.

He pointed to the stage. "That guy's going to be a star."

"That's my father," she said, motioning towards the old man. "He opened this place about a million years ago. So he gets to sing whenever he wants."

He motioned to her for another drink.

"You're a long way from the country club," she said, wiping her hands on the towel tucked into her waistband. She lit a cigarette.

"The country club wasn't serving," he said. "Besides, the country club doesn't have the ambiance of this place."

"I know!" she said, pointing the cigarette at him, her eyes widening in realization. "You're that kid. That movie star's kid." She smiled. "I really liked that movie, what was it called? The one where he coaches the little league team."

"_Three Strikes, You're Out_," Logan mumbled.

"Right, right. That was really good. I read in the paper the other day that he killed your girlfriend because she wasn't good enough for you."

Logan snorted. "That's a new one, the benevolent psychopath. What paper was that?"

"The Star, I think. It was at the grocery," she confessed.

"Well, you know what they say?"

"You can't believe everything you read?" she answered.

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions." Logan pulled out a fifty. "This is yours, darlin' if you keep 'em comin'. And if you forget who I am."

She took the money. "No problem, sweetie. You just relax and enjoy," she said as she moved down the bar.

He traced the rim of the glass with his finger; it squeaked. The glass was definitely not crystal.

His mother's favorite movie had been _Splendor in the Grass _with Natalie Wood—who may or may not have killed herself by drowning--and Warren Beatty. It's one of the those tragic teenage love stories—without the body count of a Romeo and Juliet. Every year, his mother would watch it again. When he was younger, he would sit next to her. She would rest her hand on the back of his neck and play with his hair, her fingers cold from holding her drink. The ice clinking—against crystal glass—in his ear.

The story is about Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty who are two wide-eyed kids in love. Then Natalie Wood goes crazy. Something about how she and Warren Beatty can't have sex because Natalie is a good girl. That used to be Logan's favorite scene when he was little—Natalie Wood screaming, "I'm a good girl! I'm a good girl!" It seemed funny to a little boy.

Warren Beatty ends up a farmer married to some other woman. Some other non-crazy woman, we are led to believe. And they all lived happily ever fucking after. Just not happily together.

His mother, he realized, had always been a little in love with death. He held up his glass. "To my mother," he said.

Natalie Wood was cast to play the controlling mother in _Pursuit of Happiness_, but she died before filming began. It would've been a dream come true for his mother, to work with her idol.

"To Natalie Wood," Logan said.

Now Aaron—he claimed that Paul Newman was his inspiration. But Logan's pretty sure Aaron was just saying that because actors are supposed to be concerned about their craft. Even actors who get paid twenty million to run around and shoot bad guys. The new and improved Aaron—the Aaron who did not, apparently, kill young girls and drive mothers to suicide—claimed to love Hemingway. That whole grace under pressure thing. Which made sense, if by grace he meant the belt to the backside.

Aaron said he had wanted to do a remake of _A Farewell to Arms_. He said it was going to be his life's work. Logan had read it—it was no wonder Aaron liked it. The guy meets some nurse during the war. He knocks her up, then goes AWOL to get back to her. Romantic, right? The baby dies and then the woman dies. So after all that, the guy gets off—no wife, no kid. He's at a bar in the end, totally free. No consequences for his actions. No wonder Aaron identified with it.

Now the old man was singing _Walk on the Wild Side. _He was even doing to the do-do-do-do's. Maybe Logan was in hell. If hell was full of should have's and if only's.

He unspooled last year, like a roll of film. It was all in the editing. A cut at the right moment, a change in direction and it would've ended differently.

Or had it been inevitable? When he had met Veronica after soccer practice, her cheeks flushed, her knee socks pulled tight, had the course of events already been determined? He couldn't believe that. Events were determined by choices. To go. To stay. To run and catch the train that later crashes.

If only she had stayed behind—the night of his surprise party.

If she had waited and confronted him. She would've known that the cameras weren't his. That he was someone that she could trust. Then she wouldn't have turned him in—she would've asked questions. And they would've gone to the Kane house together.

Or before then--if he had told her about his alibi—or lack thereof--when he found her Lilly case files. He could have said, "Oh by the way, I don't know if this matters, but…."

He hadn't known. It had been different then. He couldn't have known what would happen.

If only he had stayed and waited for Lilly—to give her the shot glass, the letter. Maybe they would've gone to the beach. Fought. Fucked. She never would've gone to the pool house and discovered those tapes.

He sank back his drink. Each cut resulted in a different ending, a different life; he imagined these separate Logans—the one who told the truth, the one who waited—living out their different lives. One of those Logans would be able to call her, drive to her house, pull her close and kiss her.

Then again, if he had told Veronica the truth about his alibi, she may have closed the door on him right away. She never would've kissed him outside the Camelot. That quick, tentative, confused kiss.

If she had confronted him about the cameras, maybe she never would've solved Lilly's murder.

Had it been worth it? She would tell him that it was justice. Lilly had deserved justice. And maybe she'd be right.

Logan looked forward to watching the movies. Like Amy Fisher, the Lilly Kane Story will make network and film executives come: trust, betrayal, murder.

He even looked forward to seeing Buffy try to play Veronica. On screen, it will all make sense—one event leading to the other. Action and reaction. It will be laid out in a succinct timeline. Lilly—viviacious, wild girl—dies in Act 1. Act 2, the mystery. Act 3, the solution. It will seem inevitable that the girl in the green short-shorts washing cars at the beginning of the movie has to die.

Of course, in the Lifetime Moment of Truth movie—_A Date with Darkness: the Lilly Kane Story_—it would begin and end with Lilly. It will star someone like Melissa Gilbert as Celeste Kane and that Joan of Arcadia girl will play Lilly. This movie of the week will be about mothers and daughters and how the disappointing glare of Celeste propelled Lilly to make dangerous choices.

Maybe the sequel, _Light of Justice_ would be about solving the crime—one girl's struggle to find justice for her best friend. It would star Tracy Gold as Lianne Mars and Veronica would battle anorexia.

Either way—he is tertiary. A bit player. Until the end, that is. Act 3 cannot start without him.

And suddenly Lilly was sitting next to him at the bar. She was wearing her homecoming dress. She shimmered sex. He smiled into his drink, silently thanking it for bringing her back to him—maybe the glass was a magic lamp. His hearts desire at his fingertips. But his heart felt hollow and plastic.

"I was just thinking about you, Lil." He raised his glass to her. He missed her. "What do you think of all this?"

Lilly's smile faltered for a moment. "I can play this game. I can play whatever game you want to play."

"Ah, that's the Lilly I remember. Always playing. It's refreshing." Logan motioned to the bartender. "What's your poison?"

"Whatever you're having," she said. Her voice was low, just a whisper.

"That's my girl." Logan held two fingers up to the bartender. "You know, you screwed things up for the rest of us. But I guess you weren't really thinking of us—of me—were you? It's hard to be mad at you. Mostly because you're not here. I only really remember half. And on some days, it's the good half."

"She really spun you around, didn't she?" Lilly said. She reached out and ran her finger down the side of his face. "You want to get out of here," she said.

"Oh, Lilly. Don't you know? That's all I've ever wanted—to get out of here," he said.

Logan draped his arm around Lilly, and they walked out of the bar together. Logan nuzzled Lilly's neck, and he knew something wasn't right. A hint, a whisper, a flutter of realization in the back of his mind. She led him into the alley behind the Checkerboard and pushed him up against the brick wall. Something about her hair, her neck.

And then she punched him. His head bounced against the brick wall. He stared at her, surprised, as his legs gave out and he sank to the ground. "Thank you," he said, a small smile on his lips.

Of course, she wasn't Lilly. Lilly was dead. Her arm raised up and then down, like swinging an ax, and there was nothing but darkness.

Logan hobbles out of the alleyway. This, he remembers, is why benders are a bad idea—who knows what kind of world you'll wake up to. Like today—mugging victim. His car—the monster rust bucket--is, surprisingly, still parked on the side of the street. He pulls the parking ticket from the windshield wiper.

He touches the back of his head, gingerly, a lump already forming. He breathes in sharply. She clobbered him pretty good. His head hurts, his face hurts, and it feels like she kicked him in the ribs for good measure. His kind of woman—the kind who kicked you when you were down.

He read somewhere that the body's nerves will register the sharpest pain. So this pain, sharp and constant, has replaced the dull ache of the summer. It's a refreshing change.

He sees his keys in the front seat, but his CDs are gone, and his tires are slashed. No doubt the faux-Lilly was pissed about the car. She had probably figured him for a big score.

No car, no money, no phone.

He walks a couple of blocks to the nearest park bench—outside Atlantis Community Garden—where you can score some meth. Which sounds tempting to Logan.

The stores across the street were opening—it must be morning after all. He lay down on the park bench with a groan. This is what giving up looked like. Every drink, every drug had been leading him to this place. He has no money, no credit cards, no ID. John Doe.

Logan has never really given much thought to his future—even before. He figures it is the result of living with actors. For showbiz people, the future only consisted of the next picture. All Logan had ever thought of had been escape. Freedom from Aaron. There was a time when he envisioned that freedom with Lilly. And for a split second with Veronica. He hadn't really thought about the form that freedom would take. He didn't really have any special skills—except an unusually high tolerance for alcohol. He didn't play sports. He wasn't musical. He surfed, occasionally. Usually freedom involved a boat and high seas. Maybe he was destined to be a pirate after all.

But now he is free. So this is what he's going to do from now on. He's going to live on this park bench. He'll go to the soup kitchen that Aaron donated so much money to. He will live off of the sweet irony of it all.

He smiles to himself and closes his eyes. Free at last.

What was so great about Veronica Mars, anyway, he thinks as he drifts off to sleep. Annoying, condescending, righteous Veronica. He refuses to think about how his hands could span across her entire stomach. Or how she could hold his weight when he had to lean on her. Clever, soft Veronica.

He wakes to a police officer knocking Logan's shoes with a nightstick. "Hey. Hey!"

"I'm sleeping here, if you don't mind," Logan says groggily.

"Yeah, you can't sleep here."

Logan sits up, shielding his eyes with his hand. His head throbs. Darkness creeps into his line of vision, and he thinks he might actually faint.

"Kid, are you okay? Did someone do this to you?" The officer speaks into his walkie talkie.

"Yeah, I did," Logan says, as he puts his head between his legs and concentrates on breathing, on not vomiting.

The officer takes Logan to Good Samaritan Hospital—which housed the Echolls Pediatric Wing—which Logan is thankfully nowhere near. The Echolls Pediatric Wing is, of course, larger than the Kane Oncology Ward which had been built two years earlier.

"Do you want to tell me what happened," the doctor asks as she looks at Logan's chart. "James." She flashes her penlight into his eyes, quickly, like the flick of a snake's tongue.

"My friends call me Jimmy," Logan says. He focuses on the stethoscope around her neck. It's like an amulet. He swings his legs back and forth on the bed. He feels small in this room.

"Well, Jimmy, it's too late for stitches." She hands him an ice pack for his head. "But we'll clean you up."

"I'm so glad I came all this way—for a band aid."

"And a bag of ice," she says. "Don't forget." She presses her latex covered hands to his cheek and squeezes what looks like super glue into his lip.

It hurt. A lot.

"This might sting," she says.

"You think?" he mumbles. "That's quite a soft touch you've got there."

The doctors lifts up a syringe.

"Hey, no needles," Logan says. "I've had all of my shots, thank you very much."

"Tetanus. Now don't be a big baby and pull down your pants."

"Now, Doctor, I'm not that kind of boy."

"Cute," she says.

He doesn't look as she stabs him with the shot.

"Now, Jimmy, I want you to be honest with me. Did someone do this to you?"

"I fell," Logan says.

"Do you have a place to go? There's help for you."

Logan smiles. She thinks he's homeless. Maybe he is. "Yeah, um, I don't need help."

"That's not what it looks like," she says. She rests her hand on his head. "I'd like you to talk to a social worker. She'll be here in a second." She pats him on the knee. "It just takes one step to go in the right direction." She smiles at him.

And Logan is suddenly reminded of his mother—not that his mother was about tender touches or mothering for that matter. Before she hit Hollywood, she was the big thing on Broadway, playing Blanche DuBois in a revival of _A Streetcar Named Desire_. And every now and then, usually when it was hot outside, she'd float around the house repeating her lines.

"_Deliberate cruelty is unforgivable," _she'd say, soft southern accent, fanning herself._ "And the one thing of which I have never, ever been guilty of."_

"_I know I fib a good deal. After all, a woman's charm is 50 illusion," _she'd say, light as air.

And this, the one he thinks of now, _"Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."_

And Blanche DuBois, like his mother, met with a bad end.

Is this what he'd been doing? Wandering around finding strangers to help him? Police officers, bartenders, doctors? Was this all because he was afraid of a tiny, blonde girl?

Logan is suddenly struck by the absurdity of it all. _The_ Logan Echolls with a case worker. Son of billionaire movie star, a case to be managed. Someone discussed at staff meetings regarding appropriate measures. A name on a file folder.

He asks to use the bathroom, and he ducks out of the curtained room. He turns a corner, and steps on tip toe—his version of stealth--into an elevator and pushes any button.

On the next floor, he turns a corner and at the counter is Veronica's dad. He's signing some papers, talking to the receptionist. A cane is leaning against the counter. Logan freezes and quietly backs up when Keith sees him.

"Logan," Keith says, and somehow Keith is able to imbibe in those two syllables the sense that he knows exactly what Logan's done and what Logan's thinking. It's really no wonder he was Sheriff.

Logan stops. "Mr. Mars." Logan didn't know what to expect. He had only read the newspaper accounts which had been vague—2nd degree burns, smoke inhalation, broken ribs. But Keith looks okay. Tired, but okay.

"Are you all right?" Keith says.

Logan shoves his hands in his pockets. "You know, just hanging out this summer."

"In the hospital?"

Logan suddenly thinks about what he must look like. Ripped clothes, swollen lip.

"I have a thing for candy stripers. Are you going to arrest me, Sheriff—that's right you're not the sheriff anymore, so I guess I can be on my way." Logan starts to walk by Keith.

"Can I take you somewhere?" Keith asks. "I'm finished with my appointment. I was just leaving."

Logan stops. Why was he always without a ride these days, he thinks to himself. He shrugs and follows Keith out the door.

Logan does not speak. He stares out the window.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Keith says.

"That seems to be the question of the day," Logan says. "I never realized how popular I was with authority figures. And I'm not even under investigation. I appreciate the ride home, sir, but I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"Things haven't been easy for you, Logan," Keith says.

Logan looks at him, like he's just said the understatement of the year, maybe the century.

"So it seems understandable that you might be a little angry," Keith says.

"I appreciate it, but I'm not asking for permission to be angry. In fact, seeing as my one living parent is imprisoned, I kind of don't need to ask permission ever." Logan says. No wonder Keith went out with Becky the do-gooder guidance counselor. They talked alike.

"I remember that you and Veronica used to be friends."

"And I remember how you told me to stay away from her. I also remember saying that it couldn't get any worse than that. And I was way wrong on that note."

"I want you to listen to me. You have a chance to get out from under all of this. But you have to be smart. For starters, you have to stop getting into bar fights."

"It wasn't exactly a bar fight," Logan mumbles.

"Well, you smell like a bar, and you look like someone pummeled you pretty good," Keith says, looking at Logan out of the corner of his eye. "You can do anything you want now. You just have to figure out what that is."

"Thank you for imparting your wisdom, Mr. Mars. But I didn't ask."

"I know," Keith says. "But, that's kind of what adults do. We tell you stuff. You don't listen, and then you make stupid mistakes. It's the circle of life."

Keith pulls up to the Echolls gate. "So what do you want to do?"

Logan remembers that Keith is armed so chooses not to say that he truly wants to find Veronica and take off her clothes and have his way with her.

Instead he looks up at his house—not really ever a home. "I know I don't want to live here anymore," he says.

Keith nods. "Then don't."

Keith makes it sound so easy, like saying it makes things possible. No wonder Veronica thinks she can scale tall buildings.

"Look," Logan says, as he gets out of the car. "I'm sorry. About everything. You have no idea."

"There's nothing to apologize for Logan," Keith says. "You take care of yourself. You go to school. You do your homework. And you go to bed at a decent hour."

Logan cocks his head. "I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before. I'm more used to the stay away from my daughter routine."

"I know, Logan," Keith says. "We'll get to that one later. Just remember what I said, next time you find yourself wanting to do something stupid."

Logan closes the car door, opens the gate, and walks into his quiet house, his footsteps echoing.

Logan is actually relieved to be back in his X-terra. Finally—a familiar feeling: control. And special bonus—satellite radio.

From the moment he turned on the engine, he realized that he hadn't been escaping. He'd been hiding. And all it had gotten him was a night in a jail cell and a trip to the hospital. Not exactly a successful outcome. Weevil, Wallace, Duncan, Keith Mars—they all had been in attempt to hide from the one person he really wanted to talk to.

He's been orbiting Mars.

He smiles at this realization as he drives to the beach. It's where they always have their meaningful confrontations—be it smashing headlights or breaking up.

He sees her before she sees him. She's sitting on the sand. The sun glints off of her hair, longer now. He nearly drops to his knees.

She tosses a ball for Backup every now and then and the dog charges after it, tail slicing through the air in dog ecstasy. She cups hand-fulls of sand and lets the sand pour out, like an hourglass.

Backup sees Logan first and gives Logan a bark as he charges over to him. Veronica turns quickly, about to call off the man-killer when she sees him.

She shields her eyes from the sun with her hand. "Logan," she says.

He scratches Backup's ear. "Hey," he says.

And then she gasps. She must've noticed his face. "What happened? Are you all right?" She takes a step towards him, then stops.

Logan waves his hand in front of his face. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"But your face," she says, her fingers touching her own lip, mirroring his cuts and bruises.

"I've been battling some ghosts. Sometimes the ghosts win."

She nods at this, as if she understands. Of course, she understands. She is probably the only person who possible could understand. Which is why he is here, why he couldn't run from her forever.

"I—" she stops. "I—I don't know what to say."

"Veronica Mars? Speechless?" Logan says. "Things _have_ changed. I thought you always saved your best barbs for me."

She grabs the ball that Backup has dropped at her feet and flings it into the ocean. She watches him bound after it.

She is continents away from him. Since she is not looking at him, he is able to move closer. He quietly stands beside her.

"I wish things could've been different," he says quietly.

"I know," she says. She turns to him, sees that he's so close, then turns back to look out at the horizon. "I don't think they could've been. Different, I mean."

"I know," he says.

They do not speak for awhile. They listen to the soft sounds of the water rolling onto shore.

"I've got this thing that I do," she says suddenly. "When it gets so bad and I don't think I can take it. I make it worse. I think about Lilly and how my favorite part of the day was riding to school with her, like there was nothing that we couldn't face. And then I think about the four of us together for homecoming, walking along the beach. And then I think about you, and the weight of your body on mine."

She smiles then, sadly. "How good it all was. And just when I think I can't take it, I go a moment longer. And then I know I can handle anything."

He lets out his breath.

"Do you want to help me?" she asks.

"Anything," he says.

She slips off her shoes. She pulls off her jeans and shirt until she is only in a tank top and her underpants. Pink panties—who would've thought Veronica Mars would wear pink panties.

"Come on," she says, and waves to him as she walks toward the ocean.

He strips down to his boxers, and walks into the water. It's freezing, but he dives under. He comes up a few feet away from her. They do not touch. They do not talk. She stretches her arms out and flexes her feet back and forth as she floats on the surface. He mimics her. He closes his eyes, as the water laps at his ears. Their bodies rise and fall with the rolling waves, like the ocean is breathing. He touches her fingertips as the heat of the sun warms his face.

THE END


End file.
